


Hesperia: The Last Dragonborn

by batpup



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), F/M, Inspired by Skyrim, POV First Person, Thieves Guild, Thieves Guild Questline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 06:48:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batpup/pseuds/batpup
Summary: Hesperia is unfamiliar with being a hero. She only entered Skyrim in her travels because she heard the mountains were beautiful. That, and there would be lots of gold for her to pocket. So, when she is nearly beheaded after entering the province, told she is Dragonborn, and forced into a hero's quest, she is understandably overwhelmed. She flees to Riften and there meets Brynjolf, the leader of the Thieve's Guild. She becomes caught up in the mystery of it all, in awe of the members and the lives they lead. Proving to be a skilled thief, she quickly makes her way up the ranks. She is happy.Until she learns of Mercer's betrayal.The story of my Dragonborn OC. This is mostly for fun, to give myself something to work on outside of university. Title may change once I develop this character more.





	Hesperia: The Last Dragonborn

**Author's Note:**

> The first few chapters of this work will be slow, mainly serving to establish the character and her personality. Leave a comment and let me know what you think!

I come to slowly, groggily, the steady click of horse hooves and the feeling of straw underneath me leaving me disoriented. I open my eyes, almost afraid of what I might see. Looking around, I learn I am sitting in a wooden cart drawn. Three men are sitting with me – all with bound hands, like myself. One has a cloth bound tightly around his mouth and jaw, preventing him from speaking. I blink at the muted sunlight, abrasive to my sensitive eyes, and wonder where we are being taken. 

What happened? 

"Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there,” the man across from me, adorned in blue armour, says upon noticing my sudden attentiveness. I say nothing, trying to piece together the events that brought me here. I remember coming down the mountainside into a heavily-forested area and hearing shouting nearby; I remember tentatively moving towards it, my curiousity getting the better of me; I remember suddenly being forced to the ground by rough hands and hitting my head against the ground. 

That’s all I remember. 

If what this stranger says is true, I walked into an ambush by – what was it he said? Imperials? They must be the men in red and brown armour. They walk alongside the cart and perch atop horses in front of and behind us. One is driving. I wonder vaguely who they are exactly, why they assumed I was someone of danger. 

“Damn you, Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell,” the man in ragged clothing spoke, bringing me out of my thoughts. “You there... you and me, we shouldn’t be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” 

Did I stumble into a war? 

I say nothing, continuing to look at my tied hands. The rope leaves my skin raw and red, even causing me to bleed in a few spots. I suddenly register that I, too, am wearing ragged clothing, rather than the armour I entered Skyrim wearing. My daggers are missing as well. This information leaves me feeling even more exposed than before, and I feel my cheeks heat up in my embarrassment. 

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” the man, a Stormcloak soldier, replies. 

“And what’s wrong with him, huh?” the man in rags says as he motions towards the man with a bound mouth. 

“Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.” 

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion? But if they’ve captued you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?” 

The language the men use is foreign to me and leaves me even more confused than before. This new knowledge of the war clarifies nothing. The man's’ terror mirrors my own as I realize what must be happening. If they’ve captured the leader of the rebellion, they must be planning to execute him and quell any uprisings. Gods... I did not enter this province with the intention to die. The men continue talking, but I do not register their words. I taste bile in my throat, and I close my eyes in an attempt to fend off my rising nausea. 

Hearing new voices, I look around again to find we are entering a small village. Citizens gather to watch us roll by. Parents usher their children inside; this confirms to me that we are about to die. We stop at the outskirts of a courtyard and soldiers line up, preparing for the upcoming execution. 

“Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!” A woman barks harshly. 

“Why are we stopping?” The man in rags questions. 

“Why do you think? End of the line. Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.” The Stormcloak responds. 

“Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time,” one of the soldiers calls. “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.” 

Ulfric stands up and exist the cart, shoulders squared and head held high. 

“Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rorikstead,” the soldier calls. The Stormcloak and the man in rags, respectively, step down into the dirt. Suddenly, Lokir yells something incomprehensible to my numb mind and sprints towards the direction we’d just come, attempting to exit the village. The captain calls her archers, and Lokir is shot swiftly down. I fight a new wave of nausea, knowing that my end is near. 

“Wait. You there. Step forward. Who are you?” the soldier says as he beckons me to come closer. 

“Hes-Hesperia, sir. My name is Hesperia,” I say quietly. 

“You from Daggerfall, Breton? Fleeing from some court intrigue?” 

I say nothing in response, looking back down towards my bloodied hands; I am beginning to lose feeling in my fingers. 

“Captain. What should we do? She’s not on the list,” the soldier remarks. I allow myself to feel hopeful for the first time at this. Maybe they’ll let me go, after all? Have they finally realized I am no threat to them? 

“Forget the list. She goes to the block.” 

I hang my head, all hope draining from my body. Of course. These are soldiers. They feel no loyalty except to their own kind. 

The following events pass by hazily. I see little and hear even less. Terror courses through my veins which each heartbeat, keeping me alive, unknowing of what would happen. A priestess blesses us as we line up for execution. A Stormcloak solider is beheaded with a swift, sure drop of the executioner’s axe. They push me forward next, wasting no time. I kneel on the ground, laying my head down on the chopping block. My first moment of clarity comes when I see the separated head of the Stormcloak soldier, blood dripping into the dirt from the severed neck. I close my eyes to block out the sight, waiting for my end. 

But it never comes.


End file.
